Secrets
by Virginiana
Summary: A sequel to Homecoming, September 1946. Four years after their marriage, Foyle's relationship with Katherine is shaken by unexpected revelations from the past.
1. Chapter 1: Postwar Life

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 **Part One: Postwar life**

 _September 1946_

After four years of marriage to Katherine Neville-West - Katherine Foyle, as she was now known - Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle would certainly have asserted, if asked, that he knew his wife _very_ well, thank you very much. Theirs had grown into a solid, deeply loving union built on the shared pleasures of daily life, living together and bringing up Cecily, her daughter from her first marriage. The happiness they found in each other had been enhanced by the end of the war and the safe return of his son Andrew to civilian life.

To his continuing delight, Katherine had made good on her pre-marriage vow to spoil him. He came home every evening to a hot meal on the table, freshly pressed shirts in his wardrobe, his newspaper folded neatly by his chair and, best of all, her welcoming smile. She had adjusted easily to his introverted nature, falling quiet when she sensed he was pondering something yet always ready for thoughtful and spirited conversation when he was in the mood. While she had a knack for managing things on her own that frustrated him at times, accustomed as he had been to Rosalind's more dependent ways, she had proved herself to be efficient and capable manager of the household. On the few occasions when they had fallen out over some trifle, she had always been the first to make peace. And in the most intimate part of their life, to his deep and abiding joy, she still responded to him as passionately as she had done on their wedding night.

But long-buried secrets can emerge at unexpected times, unsettling the most contented of marriages. For the Foyles, trouble erupted without warning at a London dinner party.

* * *

In the year since the end of hostilities, many aspects of life had returned to normal - well, to a _new_ sort of normal, at least. To be sure, the shadows of war still loomed large - rationing was more restrictive than ever, the housing shortage was acute and bomb damage had left ugly scars on Britain's cities. But air raids and the blackout were mercifully things of the past, making it safe to venture out after dark and allowing people to resume a semblance of their prewar social lives.

Like other families, the Foyles happily took advantage of the leisure opportunities afforded by peace. They indulged in picnics on the beaches and in the country, dined out in restaurants and took in the occasional theatre or concert. Christopher and Katherine began to socialise with a circle of friends both old and new with whom they enjoyed bridge, dinner parties and other outings.

This welcome new freedom soon grew to include regular visits to London. Katherine, ever the scholar, delighted in introducing her young daughter to the historical and cultural sights of the capital, while her husband reestablished friendships with a number of old acquaintances. One of these was with Charles Howard, his brother-in-law. Christopher had felt slightly awkward about introducing his new wife to Rosalind's brother, but both Charles and his wife Dorothy had greeted Katherine warmly and the two couples had quickly become firm friends. Several times a year the Howards came down to Hastings for a seaside weekend with the Foyles, and they returned the hospitality with invitations to their comfortable home on Hampstead Heath.

On this particular weekend their plans included a Friday-night chamber music concert at the Albert Hall, a visit to a new exhibit of Tudor portraits at the National Portrait Gallery, a trip to Selfridges to shop for Cecily's upcoming twelfth birthday and a dinner party at the Howard home Saturday night. They had met most of the guests, old Navy friends of the hosts, on previous visits, so Christopher had no reason to anticipate anything other than a pleasant evening in congenial company.

Half-past eight on that windy September evening found him pouring drinks in the Howard drawing room as Charles welcomed the arriving guests. Katherine was helping Dorothy pass _hors d'oeuvres_. Christopher glimpsed her as she moved among the company with a tray of canapés, catching snatches of her melodious voice as she greeted people, and as always, his heart swelled with pride. She was so charming, so graceful and so very, _very_ lovely in the lilac-coloured dress he'd insisted on buying her that afternoon. The soft hue flattered her complexion while the clinging jersey accentuated the gentle curves of her figure. She was easily the prettiest woman in the room in his eyes; other men, he saw, were casting her admiring glances too. _My beautiful wife_ , he thought. Even after four years, there were still moments when he couldn't quite believe she was his.

Through a break in the gathering her eyes met his for a long moment. Christopher caught his breath as a little thrill shot through him, starting in his chest and radiating south. It was a look she reserved just for him, discreet but intense, one that promised an exquisite end to the evening. He returned her glance with one of his own, equally ardent, and was rewarded with a tiny smile and a faint blush before she turned to offer her tray to a grizzled captain and his wife.

He was recalled to his bartending duties by the arrival of the final guest, a retired commander called Fletcher. Foyle had never met him before; he'd overheard Dorothy say that he was a last-minute replacement for a guest who had been called away on business. Charles made a brief introduction as Foyle mixed the new arrival a gin and tonic. Still distracted by Katherine's unspoken hint of pleasures to come, he gained only the most fleeting impression of the newcomer – late forties, stocky frame, greying ginger hair, lantern jaw, tweed jacket well-worn at the cuffs. Utterly unremarkable.

"It'll be Manchester United this year, Charles, mark my words," said a voice to his left. He turned to see the other men gathered by the fireplace in an animated discussion of the new season of association football. Irresistibly drawn, he took up his own drink and moved to join the circle passionately debating the relative merits of Arsenal, Liverpool, Aston Villa and Wolverhampton.

Happily engaged in the football talk, Christopher was unaware of what was taking place behind him. He did not notice the newcomer approach his wife and speak to her. He failed to see Katherine's posture go rigid or the colour drain from her face. When the man bent to brush a kiss on her cheek, he did not observe her recoil from the gesture, then turn quickly away to vanish into the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2: The Newcomer

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 **Part Two: The Newcomer**

Ten minutes passed before Dorothy Howard broke up the sporting discussion by announcing dinner. Excellent hostess that she was, she smoothly directed her dozen guests to their places according to protocol while her husband poured the wine. Christopher found himself seated three places down from his wife on the opposite side of the table with the stranger, Commander Fletcher, to her left.

In such lively and congenial company, the conversation flowed freely. Naval matters took centre stage at first, naturally, but the talk soon ranged over a variety of topics: the increasingly thorny relations with the Soviet Union, the housing shortage, the imminent nationalisation of the railways, the proposed new national health scheme. While most of the Tory-leaning Navy folk disapproved of the social innovations of Attlee's Labour government, a few guests supported the changes, leading to spirited debate.

They were well into the second course before Foyle became aware that his wife was uncharacteristically quiet. An intelligent and well-read woman, she usually enjoyed participating in discussions like these, but had not ventured any comments this evening. Glancing down the table he noticed that she looked strained, her earlier bloom nowhere in evidence. Her eyes were on her plate, pushing her food round with her fork, but she appeared to have eaten little.

His brow creased with concern. Was she feeling unwell, he wondered? She was normally outgoing in social situations, so to see her so withdrawn was unusual. As he watched the stranger, Commander Fletcher, directed a remark to her and she stiffened visibly, her face going taut. Even from where he was seated Christopher could see the curtness of her reply.

Foyle was nonplussed. Katherine was one of the warmest, most gracious people he'd ever known, with a special knack for drawing outsiders into a group and making them feel welcome. What on earth could have prompted this reaction? Had the man said something, _done_ something to upset her?

As he continued to study his wife, eyes narrowed, she glanced down the table and caught his gaze. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at her, a mute query of "you all right?" She responded with a tiny smile and a discreet wave of her hand, clearly intended to reassure him, but his concern was not assuaged.

The enjoyment went out of the evening for Christopher after that. He contributed little to the general conversation, so intent was he on watching his wife's end of the table. He grew more convinced that Fletcher was the problem. Katherine responded pleasantly when anyone else addressed her, trying to smile and behave normally, but her husband had no trouble seeing through the deception. And whenever Fletcher spoke to her, as happened several times, she all but cringed and replied in monosyllables.

When he wasn't observing his wife, he studied Commander Fletcher. He seemed a milquetoast sort of chap – middle class by his speech, with a flat Midlands accent, but with relatively little to say for himself in this voluble company. A man distinguished neither by intelligence, education nor personality, Foyle judged, but seemingly inoffensive for all that. What on earth about him could have so unsettled her?

At the end of the meal Katherine rose to help Dorothy clear the table. As she moved quietly between dining room and kitchen, Christopher noticed Fletcher's eyes following her as well. He felt the first stirrings of annoyance. _Eyes front, you pillock_ , he thought, watching the other man's gaze linger on Katherine's figure. _That's my wife you're ogling._

When the gathering removed to the drawing room, Foyle hung back long enough to make sure that Fletcher preceded him, giving him no opportunity to approach Katherine. His protective instincts had been thoroughly roused. He didn't know what the man might have done to cause offence, but he was determined to allow him no opportunity to repeat it.

In the drawing room Foyle took a seat on a small chintz sofa a little removed from the rest from which he could discreetly observe the company. The party now divided itself naturally into groups of three or four, chatting pleasantly. Fletcher settled in with two of the men on the far side of the room, smoking, drinking neat vodka and lamenting the folly of decommissioning Navy ships in the face of mounting Soviet aggression. Foyle refused Charles' offer a drink, wanting to remain as sharp as possible, and drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa while waiting for his wife. When she and Dorothy emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later she came immediately to join him. "All right?" he murmured, studying her as she sat down beside him. The tension was still visible in the set of her shoulders, but she gave him a reassuring smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

"Fine, darling." He raised his eyebrows to let her know he wasn't fooled, and she breathed " _later_ " in a placating whisper close by his ear. She wished to avoid a scene, he realised. Very well. He'd get to the bottom of this once the party had ended. He rested an arm along the back of the sofa behind her in a protective gesture that he hoped wouldn't be lost on the other man.

"Christopher! Been meaning to ask, how is Andrew?" Charles had settled into a nearby armchair. Foyle let himself be drawn into genial conversation with his brother-in-law, hoping that the unpleasantness, whatever had been the cause, was behind them now. Fletcher was deep in conversation across the room and Katherine seemed more relaxed now that there was some distance between them. She steered the conversation to the Howards' three children, all grown and establishing families of their own, and the evening resumed its pleasant tone.

When the hands of the carriage clock on the mantel crept past eleven the party began to break up. In the jumble of farewells and helping ladies with their coats, Foyle sensed his wife tense again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fletcher approaching. "Excuse me, darling, I need some air," Katherine murmured, and before her husband could reply she had slipped round the crowd to the French windows that led out to the back terrace, neatly avoiding the commander. Foyle gave the other man a hard, searching glance with his brief handshake and kept his eyes on the brown tweed jacket until it passed into the entry hall.

Not five minutes later, though, having seen the last of the guests to the door, he spotted the brown tweed once again slipping out the French windows after his wife. He realised instantly what must have happened: Fletcher had ducked into the darkened dining room, waited until the coast was clear and then sneaked through the kitchen so he could catch her on her own. A fresh wave of annoyance set his pulse pounding. What _was_ the man playing at?

Foyle was across the room in an instant. Rather than follow Fletcher outside, though, he positioned himself so he could see and hear what was happening on the terrace, peering round the thick velvet curtain through the half-open door. The Navy man's back was to him but Foyle could see him moving toward Katherine, who was clearly illuminated by the light spilling from the kitchen windows. "… been giving me the cold shoulder all evening," he was saying. "What's the matter with you?"

Katherine took two steps backward, raising a hand palm out to forestall his coming closer. " _Don't_ , Rupert," she said sharply. "Just _leave me alone_."

"For God's sake, Katherine, why are you so touchy?"

"You know _perfectly well_ why." Her voice, normally soft and melodious, was low and ragged, fiercer than Foyle had ever heard it. He cocked his head, straining to hear her over the wind rustling in the trees.

Fletcher's tone modulated from wheedling to incredulity. "You're not still holding a grudge, are you? After all these years? Bloody hell, it was _nothing!_ "

"I'd hardly call it _nothing_ ..." her words caught in her throat, choked off into something that sounded very close to a sob "… hadn't been gone a week! I _trusted_ you, and you …"

"I _what_? Tried to be nice to you, that's all! Bit of comfort. Shoulder to cry on and all that. Just got a little carried away. Can't blame a chap."

Foyle's eyes went wide. So _that_ was it. She'd know him before, sometime in the past, and he'd … _got carried away?_ What did that mean?

Katherine let Fletcher's words hang in the air a moment. When she replied, her voice was icy with contempt. "I think I can, actually."

"Oh, don't be such a little prude! You know, a lot of women in your position _appreciated_ a little attention. Didn't make all this bloody fuss."

She recoiled. "So _that's_ how you spent your war? Making passes at widows? A fine way to serve King and country. You must be really proud of yourself!"

The air left Christopher's lungs in a silent gasp. Katherine's first husband Stephen had been a naval officer, lost at sea in the first year of the war. That must be the connection between them. So this worthless excuse for a man had made _advances_ to her, after she'd been widowed? A wave of cold fury congealed the blood in his veins into ice.

"Oh, drop the holier-than-thou act!" Fletcher snapped, his patience clearly at an end. "You're no saint. I don't see you wearing black for Neville-West. Got married again quick enough, didn't you?"

"How _dare_ you!"

"'Course, you went for an older chap this time. Probably doesn't make _demands_. Is that it?"

Foyle's fists clenched. In his younger years he wouldn't have hesitated to storm out and flatten this impertinent bit of scum with a single punch, but by his mid-fifties he was able, with some difficulty, to control his temper. Satisfying as the gesture would be, to make a scene right now would embarrass both his wife and his hosts. Neither deserved that. So he stood still, his back ramrod straight, his eyes glued to Fletcher's back. _If he touches her, if he so much as lays a_ finger _on her -_ well, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions then.

Katherine fell back another step with a gasp, nearly colliding with the low stone wall surrounding the terrace. "I am _not_ discussing my marriage with you, Rupert," she shot back, her voice shaking with indignation. " _Ever_. Except …" she drew in another sharp breath. "A warning. You'd be well advised to tread lightly where Christopher is concerned. He doesn't suffer men like you gladly."

Fletcher snorted. "That old man?"

"You'd be surprised," she replied glacially. "I think you should go now."

Foyle took this as his cue. He stepped onto the terrace, his outrage written clearly on his face. Katherine's shoulders sagged in relief at the sight of him.

But her husband wasn't looking at her. His eyes were locked on Fletcher, who had spun round when he heard footfalls behind him. Foyle moved to within six feet of his quarry and silently stared him down, letting his anger blaze from his eyes until the other man cowered. Then he jerked his head in a silent gesture of dismissal. Obeying the unspoken command, the hapless man scuttled away into the garden and around the corner of the house, disappearing from sight.


	3. Chapter 3: A Shocking Revelation

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 **Part Three: A Shocking Revelation**

Once Fletcher was gone, Foyle turned his eyes to his wife. They stared at each other for a long moment."Christopher," she murmured, letting the air out of her lungs in a long shaking breath. " _Thank you_."

He covered the space between them in a few strides. "You all right?" he asked, taking hold of her gently by the upper arms. He could feel a faint tremor.

"I'm … I'm fine. Absolutely furious, but fine."

"What _happened_?"

"Nothing, really. He just … he presumed on an old acquaintance, that's all."

Foyle shook his head. "No, not tonight. _Before_. He made a pass at you?"

Her eyes widened. "You heard that?"

"Most of it. When was this?

"Oh, years ago. In Plymouth." She put a hand to her face.

"Katherine. _What did he do_?" Anxiety made his voice sharp.

She gestured toward the open kitchen window a few feet away, through which they could hear the rattle of dishes and water flowing from the tap. "Please, not here. Dorothy and Charles …"

He grimaced in frustration, thinking she was trying to evade the question, but guided her down the flagstone steps to the lawn, out of earshot of the house. " _Tell me_ ," he demanded, turning her to face him. It was his tone of command, the unbending voice of authority that cowed suspects and kept the machinery of law enforcement under his stern control. He had never before used it with Katherine, but it asserted itself quite naturally now.

She quailed a little at his forceful tone. "Nothing _drastic_ , Christopher! He just … got fresh!" His penetrating gaze told her that this would not satisfy. "You want the _details_?"

"Yes!" It was almost a bark.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! It was a few days after – after we got word … about the _Whirlwind_. I kept breaking down … Rupert tried to comfort me. Once I'd calmed down a bit he – he pushed me against the wall and kissed me and – and – sort of pawed at me, tried to put his hand up my – up my skirt ..." her voice caught, unable to conceal her revulsion.

 _Oh, God._ This was worse than he had feared, much worse. A wave of cold terror constricted Christopher's chest, tightening like a vise. Thirty years of ugly images from the job crowded into his mind: broken, traumatised women, victims of assault, of battery, of rape … _No, please, not that!_ "And?" he prompted thickly.

"And … nothing. That's all."

"What did you do?"

"Well, what do you _think_? I pushed him off me and threw him out! End of story. The whole thing lasted about sixty seconds."

He realised his head was pounding and let go her arms to rub at his brow, trying to take it in. Thank God it hadn't been worse … all the same, the image of that piece of filth _manhandling_ her, of her struggling to free herself from his violating hands and mouth, was seared into his brain. And just after she'd lost her husband, when she would have been at her most vulnerable. _Bastard_ , he thought savagely. _Should've punched him when I had the chance .._.

He drew in a deep breath. Justice. There _had_ to be punishment for such a man, some kind of retribution. Hadn't he spent his whole life seeking it, working for it? "Please tell me you reported this."

She blinked. "Reported … to whom?"

"The military police. His commanding officer. _Anyone_!"

"You think they'd have listened to me?" she said incredulously. "Taken my word over his? Oh, _please_. _No_ , I didn't report it. I packed my bags and took my child and _left_!"

He bit his lip. He wasn't convinced that the Navy would have ignored such a complaint, but nothing could be done about it now. "Rrrright," he said tightly. "So why have I never heard about this before?"

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm your _husband_. How is it that in four years you've never thought to mention this?"

"What would have been the _point_ , Christopher? It was years ago! Ancient history!"

The policeman in him wanted to refute this, to point out that there was no statute of limitations on a charge of attempted rape. But even in his current state of agitation he realised that this was too coldly legalistic and moreover, beside the point. "Doesn't matter. You had no business keeping something like this from me. If someone's upset you, hurt you … for God's sake, I have a right to know!"

Katherine's eyebrows went up. "Well, _that's_ a bit rich, coming from you!"

" _What_?"

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about!" she retorted defensively. "You _never_ talk about the painful things in _your_ past. You've made it very clear that you're not willing to discuss them. And yet you expect _me_ to be an open book? How is that fair?"

He stared at her in the faint moonlight, stung by the accusation. "What are you talking about?" he managed.

"You never talk about your _war_. You never talk about _Rosalind_. Even when I've asked, Christopher. You deflect me, or put me off." He could hear tears in her voice again, hovering just below the surface. "And because you don't, I don't feel I can talk about mine. About Stephen. Or about … about my precious _Richard …"_ she broke off with a sob, clapping a hand to her mouth.

He couldn't speak. He wanted to defend himself, to point out that his feelings for Rosalind were in no way comparable to her being assaulted. It was nothing short of ludicrous to try to equate them. But more urgently, he wanted to shake her by the shoulders and demand, "Who the _bloody hell_ is _Richard_?"

He was quite sure he'd never heard her mention the name before, but clearly this unknown man had meant a great deal to her _._ An old sweetheart? A former lover? Or ... _oh, dear God._ A _current_ lover?


	4. Chapter 4: On the Heath

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 **Part Four: On the Heath**

He'd left her there on the lawn, tears spilling down her face. Staggered back a few steps, then turned and walked away, through the gate at the bottom of the garden that opened onto the dark expanse of the heath. As he walked, he drew in deep breaths of crisp autumn air, trying to come to grips with his anger, his confusion and the pain that felt like a knife slicing into his heart. He felt as though a bomb had gone off in his life, in _their_ lives. She'd been assaulted – a terrible ordeal, surely, despite her attempt to make light of it – and had never seen fit to tell him. She'd taken him to task for not talking about Rosalind, or about the last war. And then she'd broken down at the mention of the name _Richard_ – Katherine, a woman who seldom gave way to tears.

None of it made any sense.

A quarter of an hour of steady walking brought him to the edge of a pond, where he halted to try to sort out the triple blow he'd been dealt. First, Fletcher. The fact that she'd kept the incident from him hurt him deeply. Why had she never shared it? Did she not _trust_ him enough? As a seasoned police officer he knew only too well, of course, that victims of this kind of attack were often reluctant to speak out. Such reticence was a major reason why rapists so often went unprosecuted. These women feared the shame of public censure and accusations that they had encouraged their attackers and were somehow at fault. But surely his wife _must_ know him well enough to realise that he would never blame her … mustn't she?

Then there was her accusation about Rosalind. It was true that she had tried several times, early in their marriage, to draw him out about her, but he'd always felt it wiser as well as easier to leave the subject alone. What woman wants her husband to talk about his late wife, to invite comparisons in which she might be found wanting? Rosalind had been the wife of his youth, the woman who had taught him what it meant to love completely and without reserve, who had given him Andrew. She would always hold a special place in his heart, no matter how much he loved Katherine. What was to be gained, though, by telling her this? Wasn't it better to live in the present, not the past?

It had never occurred to him that his reticence might have inhibited her in talking about her own losses. Stephen, of course, he knew about; he'd always known how deeply his death had wounded her. It was something he had accepted, in part because he understood intuitively that her love for Stephen had shaped her character in much the same way that his for Rosalind had moulded him. He chewed his lip, frowning. Had he unwittingly denied her need to express this grief?

And then there was the final, inexplicable blow: _Richard_. A name he was sure he'd never heard from her before, but one that was distressing enough to Katherine that the mere mention had reduced her to tears. Another painful secret she had kept from him.

It was clear that she had loved this man, whoever he was; Foyle could only assume, _must_ assume, that he was part of her past. It had been unreasonable, surely, to think of an affair. When had she ever given him the slightest reason to doubt her faithfulness? Nonetheless, he knew that anxiety over the mysterious Richard would eat away at him until he knew the full story.

He watched the moonlight reflect off the rippling surface of the pond, his anger ebbing now, feeling the first tinges of regret. If there was a lack of communication in his marriage, surely the fault didn't lie all on her side. He _had_ discouraged her from sharing difficult memories, if only obliquely, by declining to confide his own. Katherine would never have pushed him, he knew; she was far too selfless by nature. Hadn't she spent the past four years always putting his needs and comforts – and Cecily's – before her own?

Likely she had remained silent about Fletcher's assault because she found it too traumatic to talk about. And when she _had_ been forced to disclose it, had he offered her any sort of reassurance? Put his arms round her and comforted her, as a loving husband should? No, by God, he'd _barked_ at her and interrogated her like a suspect under caution, then taken her to task. _Nicely done_ , _Foyle_ , he thought.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past midnight. High time he headed back to the Howards' to try to put things right with his wife.

* * *

When he entered the gate and crossed the back garden he could see lights still burning in the drawing room, though the rest of the house was dark. _She must be asleep,_ he thought, easing open the French window. Charles, sitting alone reading _Jane's Defence Review_ , took one look at him, waved him into a chair and poured him a whisky. Quite a generous one, too. He waited until Foyle had downed a few sips before asking, "Everything all right?"

"Yyyyyes. Just … needed some air."

Charles gave him a look that told him he wasn't buying it. Foyle wasn't surprised; they had, after all, been brothers-in-law for nearly thirty years. "Don't want to pry, Christopher, but your wife seemed rather upset. It wasn't Fletcher, by any chance?"

The detective didn't reply, but his mouth twisted into a scowl. It served as answer enough.

" _Damn_ … I was afraid it was something like that. There were stories about him, during the war. About … other men's wives. He wasn't fit for sea duty for some reason, so he was based ashore for the duration. In ordnance, I think. Put a few marriages in jeopardy from what I heard, and wrecked his own. Dorothy doesn't know, or she wouldn't have asked him to make up the numbers. He didn't ... try anything tonight, did he?" Charles looked concerned.

"Nnnnno, don't think so. Seems she knew him years ago, in Plymouth." Foyle took another sip, savoring the rich, peaty taste. Laphroaig. Not Glenlivet, perhaps, but still the best single malt he'd tasted in quite a while.

"That's right, her first husband was Navy, wasn't he? What was his ship?"

"HMS _Whirlwind_."

"Of course. The _Whirlwind_. Summer of '40, wasn't it? Torpedoed off the Western Approaches. Lost half the crew, if memory serves. Dreadful business." Charles paused to sip his own drink, swirling the amber liquid. "So Fletcher made a nuisance of himself while her husband was at sea. Is that it?"

Foyle gave a brief, tight shake of his head. "Nnnnot exactly. After it went down, as it happens. Made … advances."

His brother-in-law looked aghast. " _After_ … that's disgraceful! I'm surprised you didn't take a swing at him, Christopher."

"Would have, if I'd known. She never told me."

Charles' eyebrows went up. "Aaaah." He shot Foyle a commiserating look, one that said he now understood the tension between husband and wife. "Look, old man, I'm terribly sorry about all this. Dorothy had no idea about his … reputation, and to tell you the truth, I'd pretty much forgot myself. We never should have invited him."

"Nnnnot your fault. You couldn't have known. It was a long time ago." He paused. "Does Dorothy know?"

"No."

"Look, don't tell her, would you? Don't want her upset. Katherine would feel terrible. Best just … say nothing. Put it behind us." Foyle downed the last swallow of whisky and rose, feeling the warmth of the drink rippling through his veins, calming him. "Thanks for the nightcap, Charles. Splendid vintage, by the way. It's late. Better head up."

"Night, Christopher."


	5. Chapter 5: Confessions

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 **Part Five: Confessions**

The Howards' principal guest room was on the second storey, a large dormered space once shared by their two sons. Charles and Dorothy slept on the floor below, affording their houseguests a generous measure of privacy. The smaller bedroom across the landing where Cecily usually stayed was unoccupied this weekend, as his stepdaughter was away at a Girl Guide rally in Berkshire. Foyle found himself feeling grateful that she was out of the way just now, given the current tension between himself and his wife.

He slipped quietly into the bedroom, removing his coat and tie and loosening his collar, and stopped short at the sight of the flat, empty bed. Before his surprise could mushroom into concern, though, he spotted her curled up in the recessed window seat overlooking the garden. She was huddled motionless against the dormer, facing the glass, with an eiderdown wrapped round her shoulders against the autumn chill. Clearly she had been watching for his return.

Moving closer, he studied her carefully in the silvery moonlight streaming through the window. As he'd suspected, she had dozed off. Her eyes were puffy and traces of tears were still visible on her face. He felt a fresh pang of regret, followed by an even stronger wave of love and protectiveness. "Katherine?" he murmured, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She drew in a slow breath and opened her eyes, those lovely, expressive brown eyes that had been his undoing from the day they'd met. She looked up at him for a long moment. "You came back," she whispered. " _Christopher_ …"

He blinked. Had she been afraid he wouldn't? "Katherine, I – "

She spoke at the same instant. "I'm sorry, darling, I'm so, so – "

And then he was sitting in the window seat beside her, stroking her arm. "No, no," he said thickly. "My fault. Shouldn't have been so harsh. Just … the idea of him touching you. I was afraid he'd …" he choked off, unable to bring himself to utter even a polite euphemism for the ugly word. "Couldn't bear that. If I'd known …"

"I'm sorry I never told you, Christopher, truly I am. I never imagined I'd see him again. It was so long ago. And honestly, I had no idea you'd be so upset!"

He gave her a stern look. "Course I'm bloody upset. Doesn't matter how long ago it was." Her eyes widened slightly; she had very rarely heard him swear. "If I'd known … if I'd had a _clue_ about how that man behaved toward you, I could have protected you from him tonight."

"I realise that now, but please, darling, try to understand," she replied, covering his hand with hers. "What happened with Rupert all those years ago – it was … _unpleasant_ , certainly, but it didn't … _scar_ me. It was a … a _footnote_ to the most devastating loss of my life. Coming in the wake of Stephen's death, it barely registered. Honestly, I've hardly given it – or _him_ – a thought in years."

Her face, illuminated only by the silvery moonlight from the window, was a study in sincerity, but he could hear the ache in her voice. He felt a wave of remorse for letting her suffer this loss alone for so long. "Kate," he said huskily, using the name he reserved only for their most private moments. He took her hand in both of his, distantly noticing how cold her fingers were. "Will you … tell me about that time? About … Stephen?"

Her eyes locked on his. "Are you sure?"

"Yyyyyes. Should have asked long ago." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

Katherine drew a deep breath, as though searching for where to begin. When she spoke, her words were slow and measured at first, gradually gaining momentum as her memories took shape. "Well … it was a Friday evening. I remember it had been a beautiful day, sunny and hot, over eighty. The _Whirlwind_ was on convoy duty south of Ireland. They'd been out for about three months. They were torpedoed in the early evening, around six, and within a few hours the first rumors started flying round the base.

"All that night, all the next day I was frantic – couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, but I had to try to keep a calm façade for Cecily's sake. She was five, old enough to know something was wrong. The telegram came at half-past eleven the next night … I'll never forget the feeling. It was like … like falling. Falling down a well, or off a cliff, in slow motion, with nothing to grab on to and never hitting bottom. I don't really remember much about the next few days, honestly. A blur." She broke off and swallowed hard, then continued, her voice choked.

"It turned out that Stephen was the only officer who'd been killed, apart from the commander. They lost 57 ratings. One of his shipmates wrote to me later and told me he and the CO had been on the bridge, just above where the torpedo hit. They never had a chance. All my neighbours in the officers' quarters were so kind – they brought food, looked after Cecily, helped me pack – but there was nobody else in my shoes. The commander's family lived off-base somewhere; I never met them. I didn't know where to go or what to do, but I knew I had to leave. Every man I saw in uniform was a reminder – it was unbearable.

"It was a few days later that Rupert … his wife had sent him up to help me with my boxes. They lived in the flat downstairs. Cecily used to play with their little girl sometimes. I hardly knew him – we'd met once or twice, I think, when Stephen and I were first posted to Plymouth, but he hadn't made much of an impression. Not a lot to say for himself. It never occurred to me for a _second_ that he might … do anything like that. Especially just after …" Her voice caught.

Christopher was watching her intently, still holding her hand with a firm, steady pressure. He could feel her pain as though it were his own. "Course not."

"I was a wreck, kept falling apart. I'd be all right for a bit, then something would set me off. I remember I'd just found Stephen's book and broken down again."

"Stephen's book?"

"His manuscript. On Richard I."

"He was writing a book?" She had never mentioned this before.

"Well, trying to. He'd been at it for five or six years, but with all the moving around and no money for France, he hadn't got very far."

"France?"

"Most of the records from the Lionheart's reign are at Fontevrault Abbey, in Anjou. He needed to go there for research, but we could never manage it. Anyway, I found the box with his notes and went to pieces again. Rupert put his arm round me, patted me on the back a bit. Then, after I'd pulled myself together, he said …" her voice wavered, "… he said, ' _God, you smell so good_ ,' and suddenly he was all over me."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely. "I couldn't … couldn't _believe_ it was happening. I couldn't even react at first, I was so shocked. I think that was when it sank in that Stephen was gone, really gone. I didn't think Rupert would have dared try anything like that if he'd been alive. I felt so _vulnerable,_ Christopher! There was no one I could turn to, _no one_. Our friends from his teaching days were scattered everywhere by the war. His brothers were both at sea. And yes, I suppose I _did_ consider reporting him for about two minutes, but I knew it would be my word against his. I had no proof. And Rupert was a Commander while I was only the wife of a Lieutenant – and rank matters in the Navy, I'd been a Navy wife long enough to know that. Plus, I was American. A foreigner. You remember, before America came into the war we weren't very well regarded in England. I didn't think anybody would take any notice ... just dismiss me as a troublemaker. So I just got out of Plymouth as quickly as I could."

"Where did you go?"

She sighed. "To Folkestone, to Stephen's parents. I had nowhere else to go, but … it was a mistake. They tried to be welcoming, but … we never did see eye-to-eye. On anything." She shook her head ruefully. "Even after ten years of marriage I never felt like they really accepted me. I was too bookish, too foreign, too middle class – not at all 'the right sort', especially to his mother. We'd visited them occasionally over the years, but it wasn't so bad then because Stephen was with me. But once he was gone … I knew it wouldn't work, not for long, and I was right. In the end I barely lasted a fortnight.

"Cecily made friends with a little girl called Nell who lived in a cottage up the lane. I was happy that she'd found someone to play with, but my mother-in-law was horrified. It just wasn't _done_ , she kept saying, for the granddaughter of the big house to associate with _that_ sort of child. 'Frightfully common', she said, and of course I knew that deep down she thought _I_ was just as common. I just couldn't let her infect Cecily with her snobbery. I knew I had to get away."

Foyle's sympathy was mixed with a growing sense of shame. He had never stopped to consider how much more difficult her widowed circumstances had been than his own. Losing Rosalind had devastated him, certainly, but he'd had plenty of friends and neighbours to offer support. He'd had a job into which he could throw his energies, distracting him from his grief, and an adolescent son in need of comfort and care. Most important of all, he and Andrew had had the security of an adequate income and a stable and permanent home _._ The newly widowed Katherine had enjoyed none of these consolations except for her small daughter. "What did you do?" he asked softly.

"Sarah rescued me, thank God. She rang up to see how I was getting on and invited us to stay with her and the children for a bit. Max had just left home to start his intelligence job. She was wonderful, gave me the space I needed. So when my Navy pension came through I started looking for a flat nearby. The rest you know."

He badly wanted to pull her into his arms, but the faint echo of _my precious_ _Richard_ was still reverberating in his ears, an unspoken barrier. But she made no attempt to explain it; instead, she was look at him with quiet expectancy, clearly ready for him to reciprocate.

He knew this wouldn't be easy, so he drew in a deep, silent breath and fumbled for the right words. "I met Rosalind," he said quietly, "at a Red Cross dance in Hampshire during the war. Took a bayonet at the Somme," he gestured to his left shoulder with the scar she knew so well, "then came down with some sort of fever so they shipped me home. July 1916, this was. After I got out of hospital I had some leave, so one night I had a look in at the dance. She was eighteen, just finished school. She had the gentlest hands, the sweetest smile … I was smitten. Didn't think I'd have a chance with her. Her family was quite well-off compared to mine. Worked up the nerve to ask if she'd write to me just before I went back to France. We corresponded for several months, then I got sent home in the spring of 1917 for Officer Cadet training at Aldershot. We were married in September, just before I was sent back to France. Andrew arrived nine months later."

He broke off, then forced himself to go on. "After I was demobbed I went back to the police as a detective sergeant. I couldn't give her the kind of life she'd been raised to, but I was determined to pull myself up the ladder. In time I made inspector and we bought the house. She painted, looked after Andrew, gave a lot of time to local charities. I thought things would always be the way they were … happy. Peaceful. And then one winter, a fortnight after New Year … she became ill."

His voice grew gruffer, heavier. "At first it was just a headache, low fever, loss of appetite. She refused the doctor, said she'd shake it in a day or two. I had to go out of town for a few days on a case. By the time I got back she could barely get out of bed. Seventeen days later she was gone." He closed his eyes as the memories washed over him: the terror in Andrew's eyes, the echoing footsteps of the doctors and nurses in the hospital ward, the deep coughs that racked her emaciated body, her skin burning with fever, her delirious muttering. And then at last her thin hand growing cold in his as the first rays of pale sunlight pierced that icy February night. The never-ending nightmare of her loss.

He felt Katherine's fingers tighten in his and opened his eyes to see her watching him, her own brimming with empathy. "Oh, darling," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. Do you … do you still visit her grave?"

He stiffened. Even now he quietly kept up the custom of visiting the churchyard on significant days: her birthday, their wedding anniversary, the date of her death. He had continued to make these visits even after his remarriage, though they had become more sporadic over the past couple of years. He had been careful to keep them from Katherine lest they should upset her. Now he nodded reluctantly, unable to dissemble in the face of a direct question.

Her gaze shifted away. "I do envy you that."

He blinked. "Envy? Why?"

"Having a place to go when you need to – to – remember her."

 _Of course,_ he thought with a fresh wave of compassion. Why had he never thought of it? Stephen had been lost at sea. There was no grave for her to visit, no place for her to take her grief when it welled up, as it still must. "Where do you go?"

She sighed. "I walk by the sea. And then … I come home to you and Cecily, and count my blessings."

The urge to hold her close was nearly overwhelming, but the niggling whisper in the back of his mind held him back. There was still that final secret, the last mystery to be explained. There seemed nothing for it but to ask. "And … Richard?"

She shook her head sadly. "He's in Glasgow. I've never been back."

He waited, but she said nothing else. "Will you tell me about him?"

She shrugged. "There's really nothing you don't already know."

He gave a slight, bewildered shake of the head. "Mmmm. Don't think so."

"Of course you do. I told you all about it years ago. Don't you remember?"

"Nnnnno."

A look akin to betrayal wiped the sorrow from her face. "Of _course_ I did, Christopher. I told you _everything_. How hard it was, losing him. He was so … so tiny. Six weeks premature …" silent tears began to course down her cheeks.

The penny dropped with a horrible, wrenching jolt. _My precious Richard_ … God forgive him, he should have guessed. "Richard was your baby?" He gathered her in his arms at last, his jealousy replaced with a stinging remorse. Of _course_ she had told him about her stillborn son, about the difficult birth that had nearly killed her. He had filed the information away and seldom if ever thought of it again. _I've been so blind,_ he thought, _blind and utterly selfish._ _Wanting her to put her old life behind her while still clinging to my own._ _How could I not have seen this grief that she's been carrying round with her all this time?_ "Oh, Kate, love … I'm so sorry. You never told me his name," he murmured helplessly into her dark hair.

"Didn't I?" she choked against his shoulder.

He held her and let her cry, stroking her back, his insides churning with guilt. He had failed her inexcusably. What could he do to make things right?

In time her sobs trailed off into hitching breaths and she lifted her head. "Forgive me, darling, I'm not usually so maudlin. It's just … he's been on my mind a lot these past few days. Last Wednesday would have been his ninth birthday."

As he brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs a plan began to take shape in his mind, a way he could begin to atone. "Kate, love. Listen to me. You say Richard is buried in Glasgow?"

She nodded. "Yes. It was hard to leave him behind, but we just couldn't afford to have him moved to the family plot in Folkestone. A few months later Stephen was offered the position in the States and we had to leave."

"And you've never been back?"

"No. Well, the war, you know, travel restrictions …"

"Well, I think you should go."

Her eyes widened. "To Scotland?"

"Of course."

"Oh, but it's such a long way. Someday, perhaps."

"Not someday. Soon."

"But what about you and Cecily? I can't just leave you to fend for yourselves."

"Of course you could, but there's no need. I'll come with you." It was unthinkable that he would let her make such a sad journey on her own. "Soon as you like. In a fortnight, perhaps, when Cecily has her half-term – take her with us. Or leave her with Sarah if you prefer."

"Oh, _darling_. That would be wonderful, but – it's too much, really. The train is so dear, and there would be hotel bills –"

"Don't worry about any of that. This is important, love. You _should_ visit your son's grave. I'd have taken you before if I'd known."

"Christopher!" Her voice was tremulous, barely above a whisper. She pulled his head down to kiss him gratefully. The knot of tension in his chest dissolved as he responded, tenderly at first, then with rapidly spiralling passion. "Sweet Kate," he breathed between kisses. In no time he was pulling her to her feet, the eiderdown falling from her shoulders. His breath caught when he saw her nightdress, an alluring midnight-blue silk negligée that she'd first worn on their wedding night. It was something she saved for special occasions, and it never failed to fire his arousal. In a heady rush of desire he guided her to the bed.

The lovemaking that followed was imbued with a special tenderness that elevated the intimacy to an exquisite level. Christopher was undone. Determined to make up for his neglect, he took extra care to ensure her pleasure, delaying his own gratification until he'd brought her to climax again and again. In doing so he lost himself in her, body and soul, in a way he'd never quite experienced before.

He held her close in the blissful afterglow, quietly stunned by the intensity of the encounter. The rawness of his emotions had made it feel as though he were making love to her for the first time, yet it was infinitely sweeter, because they each knew how to touch and to move to give the other the greatest pleasure.

The difference tonight had been less physical than emotional, he reflected, letting his fingers play through her hair. Katherine had been right. As much as he'd dreaded discussing Rosalind, doing so had released a long-buried grief. Moreover, he could see that his reticence had created a rift in his marriage, nearly imperceptible but real. Sharing their most private pain had healed it, helped them to understand each other more deeply. Far from pulling them apart, it had brought them closer than before.

It was a lesson he must remember. Even after four years, Christopher still saw her as a miracle in his life. Katherine had opened his heart, transformed his lonely existence and brought him endless joy. She deserved all the honesty, all the consideration and all the love that he had to give. _No more secrets between us_ , he thought, pressing a kiss on her brow before letting sleep claim him.

.

 _ **Finis**_


End file.
